


i love it when i hear you breathing

by mckayla (steveromanov)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Prompt Fill, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, these two are kinky as fuck but nothing to really warn about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5334392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveromanov/pseuds/mckayla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, Steve probably shouldn’t have opened the e-mail Tony had sent him labeled <i>Happy Birthday, Capsicle, hope you like your gift ;)</i> considering it a) was in the middle of September and therefore two months past his birthday, b) was what Tony Stark called a “gift”, and c) included a winky-face emoticon in the subject line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i love it when i hear you breathing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ice326](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice326/gifts).



> Prompt: "where stevenat's together and Steve accidentally came across Natalie Rushman's bio photos (the one in Iron Man 2), whatever plot you want to go with but hope it'll end with them doing the dirty."
> 
> Okay, so I'm terribly, TERRIBLY sorry it took me so long to finish this. I'm horrible. And you've already heard my excuses, so it's done, it's here, and I'm posting it already!
> 
> But seriously, when was the last time I posted smut? Wow.
> 
>  
> 
> [The modeling picture.](http://33.media.tumblr.com/fc441ab9681ef5e4cd2104854c195688/tumblr_inline_n1q0rtV2Av1qez0wv.jpg)

In hindsight, Steve probably shouldn’t have opened the e-mail Tony had sent him labeled _Happy Birthday, Capsicle_ , _hope you like your gift ;)_ considering it a) was in the middle of September and therefore two months past his birthday, b) was what Tony Stark called a “gift”, and c) included a winky-face emoticon in the subject line, but like Bucky had always used to remind him, Steve, when it counted, was never particularly smart. And he had a habit of letting his curiosity get the better of him.

It’s a habit he still has. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get rid of it.

Because now Steve’s sitting at the table in his kitchen, jaw hanging so low that it’s bound to start weighing down on the space bar key, staring at the screen of his laptop because, no, it can’t be, Tony did _not_ just send him a collection of pictures of, _well_ —

It’s Natasha, her hair a tad longer than it is now and her skin a little paler, too, but it’s definitely Natasha, _his_ Natasha, posing for a camera in nothing but a black, lacy bra, matching panties and a white fur throw. He sits there for a moment just staring at the screen, at the way her painted, candy red lips are slightly parted; at the intense look on her face, the way the color of her hair stands out against the creaminess of her skin, and Steve doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed, seriously pissed at Tony, or… thanking him, maybe? No. That sounds even more perverted than the fact that Steve’s somehow worked up the ability to move his hand to the arrow key and is now slowly flipping through the slideshow, one by one, because then Tony will have the satisfaction of knowing that Steve actually scrolled through these photos, enjoyed these photos, and—wait, where the hell did he even _get_ these photos, anyway?

Christ, he’s Tony Stark. What _isn’t_ he capable of getting?

“Hey. I’m beat.” The hairs at the nape of Steve’s neck stand up on end as he registers the sound of Natasha’s voice as she steps through the door of their shared apartment, kicks it shut, and pads further into the room. Her footsteps are always so quiet that he’s not able to perceive if she’s close to the kitchen yet, so he slams the lid of his laptop shut without risking the brief time it’d take for him to exit out of the e-mail attachment and swipes his clammy palms on the thighs of his jeans right when Natasha steps up behind him, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “And hungry. What were you doing?”

“Hm?” He nearly winces at how rushed and jittery it sounds. It’s not like he’s embarrassed at the thought of being caught looking at enticing (understatement) pictures of Natasha; she’s his girlfriend, for crying out loud. It’s just… those pictures happened to have come from Tony Stark, and while most of the time Natasha’s just joking when she threatens to castrate Tony, Steve’s kind of afraid to see what’ll happen if she finds out that he had e-mailed Steve half-naked pictures of her without her knowing. Flashes of Natasha doing irreparable damage to their inventor friend with just her pinky finger crosses his mind, and he tries to hide his wince.

Yeah, he _really_ shouldn’t have opened that e-mail.

He tilts his head up at Natasha, who’s giving him a questioning look. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Just… e-mails.” He decides to go with the truth, at least in part. Natasha had said to him one time that the most convincing lies always contain at least a sliver of truth. Of course, she had only told him that after calling him a terrible liar, but whatever.

He gives her his best cheek-to-cheek grin, the one he’s come to notice she has a weak spot for, and lets the top of his head rest against her chest. She’s still standing behind him, so her face is upside down, hair falling around both of their heads as she watches him with an unreadable expression on her face. Typically, this doesn’t mean good news. It means that she knows he’s not telling the truth and she’s trying to figure out what he could be lying about while she also waits for him to just cave and spill it. Nope, not this time. He’ll take the very slim chances he has of her believing him, thank you very much. He smiles wider, her palms sliding slightly against the stubble on his cheeks, and, just like adding the cherry on top, he turns his head to the side and kisses the inside of her palm.

Thankfully, she doesn’t press the topic, and instead bends down and presses a kiss of her own to his forehead in response.

“You said you were hungry?” He asks in an effort to steer the subject elsewhere some more. She nods and he cups her hands with his own, holding on to them as he turns and stands before pulling her close to him in an embrace. “I’ll make dinner. Anything you want in particular?”

Okay, so maybe he’s kissing ass just a tiny bit. He’s just willing to do anything to quell her suspicions at the moment.

“Surprise me,” she says. He nods before ducking down to kiss her softly on the lips, and then he goes into the kitchen proper, turning his back on her as he opens the fridge and searches for something to prepare.

When they’re sitting at the table an hour and a half later enjoying spaghetti alla carbonara, salad, and a bottle of wine, Steve doesn’t even notice that his laptop has disappeared.  

* * *

Later that night, after the both of them have eaten, cleaned up the kitchen, did some _more_ eating (well, Steve did, if you catch her meaning) and cleaned up again, Natasha cracks open Steve’s laptop while he’s out like a light beside her, arm draped over her thighs and face pressed against her hip.

She actually has to contain her laugh when the laptop boots up and she gets a good look at what had Steve so flustered when she came home earlier that day. He’s so adorably innocent sometimes, she doesn’t know what to do with him. They’re just pictures, and they’re not even seriously explicit. Hell, she’s his girlfriend. He’s seen her in way, _way_ less.

And then she gets a good look at the e-mail’s recipient.

Huh.

What she chooses to do to Stark about the pictures is decidedly less rewarding for both parties than what she chooses to do to Steve, but it'll fill her with satisfaction all the same.

* * *

Steve hardly sees Natasha over the next couple of days. Fury sends him out on a mission with STRIKE; he typically goes with Natasha, as she’s his partner, but apparently she’s needed back at the Triskellion for own thing, and Steve doesn’t push it. He’s learned not to pull with Fury, at least not when he doesn’t deem it necessary. Before he leaves their apartment, he kisses Natasha soundly, telling her he’ll be back before the weekend.

He’s true to his word. He gets home on a Thursday, no worse for wear than before he’d left, but he supposes the serum would have taken care of any injuries anyway, if he had even received any. He calls for Natasha as soon as he steps inside and when she doesn’t answer he figures that she must be out, either hanging with Clint or doing some more work for Fury. That’s all well and good; he can take a shower, relax for a bit, and then cook dinner so that it’s done by the time she gets home. He takes a package of steaks out of the freezer to defrost before heading down the hall to the bedroom, already peeling off his suit.

His arms are tangled where he’s struggling to pull the suit off over his head (he loves his stealth suit, really, but it can be a real pain in the ass to get in and out of alone), so he can’t see where Natasha is when he enters the bedroom and she says, “Hey there. Having trouble?”

How she manages to sound sultry, seductive, and amused all at once, Steve has no idea.

“Nat? Have you been home this whole time?” Even though he can’t see her, he knows she’s smirking at the way his voice comes out muffled—and how he’s still got his arms extended skywards, suit wrapped around them and his head.

She hums in affirmation. “You really look like you need some help,” she says in that same tone of voice.

“No, I—” At that, Steve finds enough purchase to yank the rest of the suit’s top over his head, and he blinks a bit before— _oh_. “Got it,” he finishes, throat tight and mouth dry.

Natasha’s wearing the same lacy black lingerie set from the photos Tony had sent him, the same white fur throw draped around her waist and legs, and she’s sitting in the _exact_ same position; leaning on one elbow, hair curled and cascading down her right shoulder. Her lips are even painted the same color, for chrissakes. It’s like the picture’s come to life right before his eyes—

Oh, shit. _The_ _picture_.

The realization that Natasha must have seen the e-mail hits him like a sack of bricks, and it must show on his face because she says, “This is for you, you know.”

“I don’t—is this a test?”

She laughs, and he’s glad to hear that it doesn’t sound bitter, just fond. “No, baby,” she says. “It’s a gift.”

He scoffs, face still a tad flushed. “I seem to be getting those often lately.”

“Tony meant it as a joke, not a gift. He knows that your birthday is on the Fourth. I mean, who wouldn’t, how _ironic_ —” She stops; she knows he’s heard just how ironic the fact that Captain America’s birthday falls on the Fourth of July more times than he’d like. “Even so, Tony’s not shallow, at least not deep down. He doesn’t forget his friends’ birthdays. He sent you those pictures as a prank.”

“I don’t doubt it. One time, he sent me—never mind.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Seriously, never mind.”

“Fine,” she laughs. Then, “Now, would you come here? My arm’s getting tired. I’ve been leaning on it for the past fifteen minutes waiting for you to come home.”

Steve knows she’s lying, at least about her arm getting tired. She can stay in one solitary position for hours on end, he knows, but he relents, discarding his suit’s top with a grin and crawling towards Natasha on the bed, meeting her for a deep, slow kiss.

She hums into his mouth, shifting to get her other arm free and unbuckle his trousers, but Steve pulls away when her hand grasps his belt. “Wait, wait,” he breathes. She frowns at him, and she looks so goddamn _beautiful_. “I’m all dirty,” he supplies weakly.

“So, you’re just going to take a shower just to get dirty again? I don’t plan on stopping after one or two rounds, Rogers,” she smirks. Steve can already feel himself reacting to the sentence, his trousers growing a little more cramped. She seems to notice, because she clucks her tongue and sits up fully, since he’s no longer bent forward to kiss her and is now standing. “Okay, these need to be off. Now.” In a swift movement, she’s unbuckled his trousers and they’re sliding down his legs, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. She doesn’t give him much chance to do anything in response because, suddenly, she’s palming his erection through the fabric, and all he can do now is tilt his hips into her palm and groan lowly.

“You wanna know where the pictures were from?” She purrs before bending forward and pressing a kiss to the head over his boxers. He groans again in response, hoping it sounds like he’s saying _sure, yeah, why not, your_ hand, _my god_. “I’m sure Tony’s told you about the first time we met; I was undercover in Stark Industries and I became his, and then Pepper’s, assistant. I don’t think his ego’s ever healed completely for being so thoroughly duped.”

“We”—he clenches his jaw as she squeezes his shaft, and the smirk on her face tells him that she’d done it on purpose—“We really talking about Stark while your hand is on my— _shit_ , Natasha—”

“Yes?” She asks coyly, her hand dipped into his boxers fully now and wrapped tightly around his erection. Steve has a hand braced on her shoulder so he doesn’t fall completely over, his knees are so weak, and he has to make sure that he doesn’t accidentally grip too tight and bruise her. Not that she’d _mind_ , she seems to like the marks, actually, but sometimes he feels guilty. Sometimes.

He takes a deep breath through his nose before trying again, “You’re bringing up Tony while you're giving me a hand job? Really not something I’d ever expected from you.”

“You can’t expect anything from me,” she says amusedly, and he has to suppose that that’s sort of true—and one of the reasons why he loves her so much. “And I was getting to the point, thank you very much.”

“Then get to it,” he grits out as her hand does a twist on the upstroke.

“You know, you get really bossy in bed. It’s kind of a turn on,” she tells him. But she relents, nonetheless, “I had to build a resume so that my cover seemed believable. Why an assistant should have a background in modeling, I have no idea, but I do know that, despite being a genius, Stark likes to think with his dick more than his head when it comes to women.”

“Okay, I’m definitely cutting this conversation short,” Steve says, but he’s smiling too, and then he’s bending down and curling his fingers beneath her chin to lift her head up for another kiss. Natasha doesn’t cease the undulations with her hand, and a certain swipe of her thumb over the head has him nipping at her lip involuntarily, and she gasps into his mouth; tells him to do it again. “You get bossy too, you know,” he murmurs against her lips.

“I’m always bossy,” she murmurs back.

“I like it.”

She laughs, but the tail end comes out as a hum. “Kinky.”

“Look who’s talking,” he says humorously, and she knows he’s talking about her outfit.

“I think there’s too _much_ talking going on, don’t you?” Before he can answer, Natasha drops her hand away and wraps her legs around Steve’s waist, yanking hard and twisting her body in the quick, unexplainable ninja-assassin way she does, and suddenly he’s on his back on the bed and she’s straddling his waist, his cock pressed against the front of her already damp underwear. Natasha grounds down against it, once, and Steve’s grip tightens on her hips. She moans delightedly as his fingertips dig into her flesh, and Steve just wants to hear that sound _again_ —he holds her tight as he rolls them over himself, and she’s laughing because he’s much clumsier about it then she, but then she suddenly quiets as Steve ducks down and kisses a sloppy, wet trail across the top of her breasts.

Steve reaches a hand behind her back to unclasp her bra, and he feels a surge of pride go through him when he actually manages to get the thing off of her without tearing it in some way. Natasha has gone through many pieces of undergarments because of Steve ever since they started dating—she only started to mind after he literally ripped her favorite panties to shreds, and then he had to go out and buy her a new pair, feeling guilty. And then, not even a whole week later, he had to buy her another. He figures that she probably had to go through some trouble to get this particular lacy set to reenact the picture, so he slides the bra carefully off her skin and drops it over the edge of the bed instead of flinging it across the room like he wants to. Natasha laughs at the sentiment, slipping her hands into his work-grimy hair and bringing his mouth down to hers for a kiss. He breaks away, though, to resume his attentions to her chest, and Natasha doesn’t have much protest to offer against that.

She does, however, gasp appreciatively when he kisses around her nipple before finally sucking it between his lips, the other being subjected to the callouses on his index and thumb fingers.

“ _Steve_ , don’t tease,” she tries to make it sound reprimanding, but it’s pretty useless considering his name comes out on a moan. “I’m kinky, not patient.”

He chuckles against her breast. She bucks her hips against him to get her point across, even though she’s positive he knows exactly what she wants.

“Alright, alright,” he says, still chuckling, and she looks like she’s going to say something smart in reply, but she swallows it down as Steve starts kissing a line down her stomach, past her belly button and to the hem of her panties. He takes those off just as delicately, ignoring her impatient growl as he slides them slowly down her legs and tosses them over his shoulder. She’s already got her legs spread when he focuses his attention back on her, and he’s laughing quietly again as he ducks forward and, without any more preamble, licks a broad stripe from bottom to top.

“Fuck,” Natasha breathes, fisting one hand in the sheets above her head and one in his hair. “Fuck, Steve— _there_.”

He doesn’t really need her to guide him, considering he knows all her hot spots, knows just what to do to get her teetering on the edge or, if he wants, throw her completely over. But, to be honest, he gets a tad turned on by her directions. At least, he likes hearing her talk when he’s giving her pleasure; her voice gets throatier than usual, and he selfishly loves hearing the way she moans or gasps or, if he’s lucky, even growls his name.

He flicks his eyes up to her as he parts her with his thumbs and sucks on her clit, and her mouth falls open in a pant that starts off soundless and ends in a small, strangled whine as she arches into his mouth and pushes his head further against her folds.

“I need—” She gasps, pausing to gnaw on her bottom lip. “Fingers.”

Steve obeys, sliding his hand along her inner thigh and pushing his middle finger inside of her. She hums in approval, and he adds another. By the time he twists and curls his fingers inside of her, lips crowned around her swollen clit, Natasha’s covered in a sheen of sweat, both of her hands wrapped tightly in the comforter at her sides as she tries to lift her upper body, panting heavily, pupils blown wide, and suddenly she’s—

“ _God_ , fuck, don’t you dare stop,” she grits out, falling back down against the bed and writhing against his jaw. Her thighs are quivering violently on either side of Steve’s head, and he has to keep her legs parted with his hands to keep them from both crushing his skull and muffling the sound of her coming undone. She makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, jolts one final time, and then gasps, her body going limp.

Steve licks her one last time, kittenish, before backing away, and her legs twitch at the sensation, but she doesn’t make an effort to pull him back. He gets a good look at her where she’s sprawled out on the mattress and another surge of pride washes over him at how boneless she is; her chest’s rapid rise-and-fall is slowing down, but she’s shiny with sweat, and some of her curls are sticking to her shoulders and forehead. Her eyes are so droopy that they almost look closed, but he knows she’s watching him by the way her lips are tipped up in one of the faintest smirks he’s ever seen. Despite the throbbing in his groin, Steve wants nothing more right now than to draw her or, at least, take a picture.

“I’d stop feeling so smug, if I were you. Your ego is taking away from your performance,” she says breathlessly, and he laughs.

“The way you’re panting so hard tells me that that’s very opposite from the truth,” he replies, and she lifts her arms weakly for him in an invitation to come to her. He complies, crawling up the bed to meet her for a kiss as she wraps her arms loosely around his neck, sighing contently against his lips.

They kiss for a few minutes, but Steve’s erection is getting borderline painful, and he can’t wait anymore. Thankfully, Natasha’s refractory period is almost as short as his, and she’s also magically produced a condom out of nowhere. He braces his arm beside her head as she rolls the condom on him, and it’s all he can do not to collapse right on top of her from the sensation of her hand on him again or just buck straight into her, but he waits until she’s squeezing at the end of his shaft to make sure the condom’s secured before pulling her into a rough kiss, his other hand snaking down their bodies to line himself up at her entrance.

Natasha whimpers as he slides into her, her hands digging into his biceps as he settles until the very hilt. He spends a few seconds kissing her jaw and neck; allows her a few moments to adjust, even though she’s told him to _get on with it, Rogers_ more than once whenever he’s done this before. She doesn’t argue this time, though, but she does dig her heels into his ass when she wants him to start moving, so he does.

His initial thrust is a long time coming, so he can’t help that it comes out harder than he intends it to, but the end result is Natasha moaning pleasantly and sliding up the bed a few inches beneath his body. She crosses her ankles in the dip of his lower back and then he just lets go; she meets his thrusts with upward pushes of her own, and her nails are all over his back, leaving marks that’ll just be faint pink lines come morning. When he bites above both of her breasts and sucks a mark below her clavicle (“ _I don’t have a serum to fade my marks in time for work, unlike some people,_ ” she had scolded, but she was moaning through a smile, too, so Steve doesn’t think she’s _too_ mad about that), Natasha tightens her thighs around his waist and rolls them over, not wasting a beat as she plants her hands on his chest and starts riding him like she’s trying to tear a hole through the mattress.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to reach his peak, the way Natasha’s moving above him. She’s close too, he knows, because she suddenly slaps her hand against the wall above them, pressing so hard that he’s surprised it doesn’t crack beneath her palm, and is riding him with even more fervor than before. He grunts beneath her, unable to do anything but hang on to her hips, and she’ll have bruises there too, by the end of the night, but he doesn’t care, _she_ doesn’t care, and she’s coming, clenching around Steve with a cry that sort of sounds like his name but he’s not sure because he’s coming too, using his grip on her waist to press her against his groin as he pushes in. He holds her against him for what feels like minutes, his vision fuzzy and white, mouth open in a shout that was probably loud enough to warrant complaints but is now silent. He figures that the whole ordeal was probably loud enough to warrant complains, anyway—he’s actually surprised the cops aren’t already knocking on the door.

He doesn’t feel like thinking about that now, though, and instead collapses back on the bed, Natasha’s arms giving out where she had been bracing them against his chest and making her fall on top of him. She doesn’t try and catch herself; she just lands against his bare torso with a satisfying smack of sweat-slicked skin on sweat-slicked skin, and the only sounds after that are of them trying to catch their breaths.

And then Natasha laughs, turning her head into Steve’s neck so that he can feel her smile against his pulse point.

“What?” He asks, but he can’t help but laugh with her.

“I don’t think Stark planned on me screwing your brains out as reaction to you seeing those pictures.”

He groans, running a hand down his face. “It was bad enough talking about Tony during sex, but _post_ -coitus? You got a weird obsession with him or something?”

“Oh, please.” She pokes at his chest, and he chuckles again. He’s only joking; she really can’t be in the same room with Tony without making at least ten threats against his life, which is funny considering that he sort of considers her as his little sister, albeit one that he’s not-so-secretly afraid of. “I only have a thing for one Avenger, thank you very much.”

“Huh. Didn’t know.” She rolls her eyes and pinches his stomach, and when he laughs, this time she joins him. They stay like that for a few moments, but then he asks, “Speaking of Stark, what _are_ you going to do to him about the pictures?”

She smiles deviously. “Nothing nearly as fun as this. Well, at least not for him.”

* * *

Two days later, Tony invites the whole team to the Tower for a get-together since Bruce is back from Sri Lanka and Thor is visiting from Asgard. Steve and Natasha step off the elevator with her curled into his side and his arm draped over her shoulders, a display of affection that Steve is secretly giddy about, but that happiness is completely forgotten when Tony greets them with a slight wince and notably new black eye.

“Heya, Cap. Thanks for coming.” He looks to Natasha and nods, “Red.”

“Uh, hi, Stark,” Steve says after a moment. Then, “What’s up with the shiner?”

He rolls his eyes. It looks even more dramatic considering his injury. “Ask your girlfriend.” He turns to go talk to Banner but then adds, “Oh, by the way: don’t expect a birthday present from me next year.”

As Tony walks away, Steve looks down at Natasha, who’s grinning smugly. He opens his mouth so say something, but she beats him to it. “Totally, totally worth it.”

Steve cracks a grin and kisses her temple. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she says back, smiling too. “I do.”


End file.
